My thoughts on smoking:
I’ve always said that smoking is what grounds me. I think that this sounds rather poetic, to be grounded. It seems that poetic reasoning gives credence to excuses in my way of thinking. There is nothing poetic about COPD. My reasoning is a bunch of crap.
My thoughts on my present weight:
I over eat to escape the feeling of living in my own life, pounds of unsaid words and procrastination, with gravy on top. That’s another excuse that has a ring of deep poetic awareness. Really? My own life, consists of a fantastic job, beautiful suburban home, caring husband, self supporting adult children.
I always want to be somewhere else doing something different. I want my surroundings to be dripping of orange, purple and red mosaics, smelling of nag-champa. My surroundings are dripping in cream, black and beige, but damnit there is more than one red throw pillow, aqua paintings and bright yellow flowers.
I want to be sober and I am. I want to love and be loved, and I am. I do not want to worry about my mortgage payment and my meals, and I don't.
I'm not in Key West running a live bait and bar-b-q sandwich art gallery. That's sorta, kinda what I'd rather be doing today.